


all our strength and all our sweetness

by pray_for_sound



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Excessive tea drinking, M/M, MFA AU, Masturbation, and Armie is a secret poet
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:21:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27562231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pray_for_sound/pseuds/pray_for_sound
Summary: Timmy is a fresh-out-of-undergrad MFA student trying to get his bearings in a new town and the fiction writing world.
Relationships: Timothée Chalamet/Armie Hammer
Comments: 169
Kudos: 105





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> updates on sundays! except this one which you get a day early :)

Mr. Guadanino’s class on the Art of the Scene was the most sought after class in the whole graduate English department. Students didn’t even care that it was from 7–9:30 on Thursdays or that he insisted on always teaching in the darkest, dingiest room on the whole campus, in the building that was attached to the library, all the way across campus from the building that housed the rest of the English department. It didn’t matter, it was always the first class to fill up every spring.

Luckily for Timmy, the MFA students got priority registration for the graduate English classes. He was determined to get this rite of passage in his first year, like a way of getting ahead of the game. He was already only twenty three going into his second semester of grad school. He felt like he needed a leg up.

One of the other students in his cohort and easily his best friend in the program, Saoirse, moved here with her girlfriend Florence and they live in a really adorable apartment and have monthly readings in their living room. Timmy’s been to a few of them, and it's a great bonding experience for the whole program really.   
  


“You’re so lucky that your girlfriend moved here with you.”

“Ugh, I know, Flo’s the best.” Saoirse has that look in her eye that makes Timmy sure they have like one of those love stories from a fucking movie or something. She looks back at Timmy as they’re walking. “Did yours not want to?”

“Um,” Timmy chews at his lips, adjusting his backpack. “No, she didn’t. We uh, we broke up because I wanted to move out here for this program. She was like _Timmy, you can’t just move to another part of the country where you don’t know anyone for three years. That’s a whole part of your life, you’ll come back a different person._ And uh, yeah. You can probably fill in the rest of that conversation.”  
  


They’re both waiting around after their fiction workshop for Mr. Guadanino’s night class, reading in the MFA lounge, Saoirse with her feet propped up on the wall, her hair coming loose from her bun, spreading out over the couch. Timmy’s at the big desk in the corner trying to get through some reading for his Romantics class. He has leftover take out pad thai that he brought from home that he picks at with a plastic fork. Saoirse’s crust from a sandwich and mostly empty bag of chips sits on the coffee table in front of the couch.   
  


Timmy sighs and flips his book over on the desk, fishes his travel mug out of his backpack and a tea bag. He needs the bit of caffeine to keep him going at this point and the MFA lounge has a water cooler with a button that makes hot water too. One of the best discoveries in his first semester.

He’s pouring the hot water into his travel mug when the tallest guy he’s seen recently pokes his head in the door, “What’s up MFA-ers?”

Saoirse rolls around and brings her feet down off the wall, pushing her bangs back on her head and sitting upright. “Armie!” 

Timmy doesn’t know this guy, but clearly Saoirse does. Her smile is taking up her whole face and she reaches out to him in greeting from the couch. 

“Hey. Just another rousing night in the lounge.”

The guy, Armie, smiles and says, “Clearly.” His voice is deep and suits the slight level of scruff from a few days of not shaving, but also from someone who is attractively hairy. Timmy feels himself start to blush a little, because inevitably the conversation will turn to him, the other person in the room who this man has not met yet. Timmy’s waiting for it and dreading it.

The tall beautiful man turns his whole body towards Timmy and nods his head at him in a greeting. Timmy thinks this guy is clearly used to everyone being enamored with him immediately. “You one of the newbies?”

Timmy chuckles, and looks down at his filling travel mug, lifts the lever to stop the hot water. “Uh, yeah. I’m Timmy. New fiction student.”

“Timmy!” Armie says it like he’s getting ready to cheer for him during some sort of sporting event. “Nice to meet you. I’m Armie.”

Saoirse laughs then, “Oh my god, my fault, my fault. I didn’t even think that you two wouldn’t know each other. Timmy, this is Armie. He’s the playwriting specialist here. Timmy did a lot of theater in high school.”

Armie turns his big smile back to Timmy, “Is that right?”

Timmy brings his tea back to the desk and sits down in the chair. Tries to act cool and props his feet up on the desk, leaning back in the chair, showing off his Docs.

“What was your favorite production you were a part of?”

Timmy makes a show of thinking about it. “ _The Pillowman_ probably.”

Armie’s eyes go a little wide. “Your highschool put on _The Pillowman_?”

“It was a performing arts high school.”

“How did you end up in a writing program then?” Timmy can tell he has this guy’s attention and it’s slightly intoxicating. The idea that someone so magnanimous and intelligent was currently intrigued by Timmy. Timmy thinks it must be his shoes. His hair looks good today too. 

“I um… intend to still act one day… actually, locally first would be ideal even while I’m here, but one of my teachers encouraged me to apply for fiction writing here and when I got in it just seemed to be the right thing to do at the time.”

“Applies to an MFA on a whim and gets in, okay, Timmy, okay.” Armie’s moving his mouth back and forth like this is something he thinks is truly impressive.

Timmy chuckles sheepishly, tucking one hand into the back of his shirt behind his neck. “I don’t know man, I’m just, you know, trying things out.”

Armie’s smile hasn’t faded from his face. “Yeah, okay, well don’t quit it or anything.” He turns back to Saoirse. 

“Well, good chatting with you both. Just figured I’d drop by, I saw the light on.” Timmy uses this moment of his eyes being elsewhere to try to see if he’s wearing a wedding ring. “You know I like to try to keep tabs on what you cool kids are doing down here.”

Saoirse rolls her eyes at him, “Yeah because you’re fucking ancient. Right.”

“It’s less about actual years and more about how it feels in my heart, Sersh.”

Saoirse throws her head back and laughs. “Well then, it _has_ to be past your bedtime.”

Armie runs a hand through his hair. His sweater is pushed up to his elbows and Timmy thinks that he’s never found someone’s forearms attractive before, but first time for everything. “That it is. I’m heading out for the night. Don’t stay out too late.” He points from Saoirse to Timmy and back again. “It’s a school night.”

And with that, he’s gone.

Timmy carefully takes the first sip from his tea, and it burns him. “He seems… nice?”

Saoirse says, “Yeah, he’s great. He writes poetry too, you know?”

Timmy’s eyebrows hit his hairline. “He does?” His voice squeaks a little. “I mean… how do you know that?”

“He told me. Not like it’s a secret or anything. I’m going to get him to come read at my living room reading sometime.”

“Oh my god, _yes_.” Timmy tries to make it sound like he would be excited by that, but not too excited.

“I know, right? I can’t wait to hear what his poetry sounds like.”

Timmy thinks that with that voice, if the poetry is any good at all, he will be super, super fucked. He flips his book back over onto his knees and settles back into reading. Saoirse lies back, her feet climbing back up the wall and they tuck in to wait out the next hour before their night class.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The department all gathers around a visiting writer, and Timmy ends up square in the middle of Saoirse plan's for her next reading.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look, I did it! I updated on time! :D

Next Thursday, there’s a visiting poet, so Greta cancels their workshop. It’s some old white guy Timmy’s vaguely heard of, but sue him, he really doesn’t keep up with the poetry scene. Greta cancels their workshop so they can attend, or rather, they can all go as a class.

It’s in one of the larger rooms on the English floor. The MFA program assistant, Kiernan, comes barreling out of the double doors as their class approaches. “Can anyone help me track down a few more chairs?” She pleads with them.

“Oh, Kiki, anything for you, doll,” Saoirse calls out at her back as she’s already halfway down the hallway the way they came from.

Timmy follows Saoirse forward, jiggling the handle of the next classroom down to find it locked, moving on to the next one, which opens revealing a scant amount of chairs around a small table.

“This’ll do.” 

They each grab two chairs, hauling them awkwardly down the hallway back to the big classroom. Timmy kicks his foot out into the chair, bringing it in line behind the other four rows of chairs and looking towards the front of the room. He sees Mr. Guadagnino with a significantly older man, salt & pepper hair still, but that distinct kind of old man skin. He’s wearing a navy sweater that probably has his own hair all over it. Timmy shivers and turns back around to Saoirse.

“Right. Coffee?” She asks, gesturing towards the refreshments table set up in the corner.

  
  


“Don’t get me wrong,” Saoirse’s leaning against the table with half a celery stick in her hand, whispering conspiratorially with Timmy as he pours his coffee. “I think there are actually old white dude poets who were geniuses, but Bobert Pinneski is not one of them.” She turns her head, as if to check to make absolutely sure that Bobert Pinneski didn’t hear her, but instead she comes face to face with Armie.

“Armie! Hey!” That same broad grin from the week before sneaks over her face and she takes another bite of the celery stick.

“Hello Saoirse, fancy seeing you here,” Armie says and Timmy thinks he’s even more stunning up close. It’s obvious how much taller he is than Timmy, and the sheer number of eyelashes he has is staggering. He nods at Timmy. “Timmy.”

Saoirse reaches out a hand and touches Armie’s elbow. “Are you looking forward to Bobert’s reading? You must be, right?”

Armie smirks and looks around, but they’re surprisingly sheltered in the back corner of the room. Some of their cohort has taken chairs in the second row, apparently uninterested in the vegetable tray or weak coffee. 

“God, no,” Armie laughs. “I’m here for the snacks.”

Saoirse throws her head back and laughs. “How did I just know that we’d be on the same page about this?”

“You did?” Armie’s blue eyes flash with delight. 

“I did,” Saoirse grins, “Somehow I just knew. I’d rather listen to your poetry any day.”

Armie’s smile doesn’t falter. He moves in behind Timmy once Timmy finishes pouring his coffee and is picking up the milk pitcher. His mouth shifts side to side as he plucks up a cup and holds it under the spout of the coffee urn. “I could be convinced to read for you some time.”

“Well, you’re in luck, I happen to have a monthly reading in my living room.”

“Oh _do_ you?”

Timmy jumps in, “Yeah, it’s super chill, but pretty well attended. Saoirse always gets cool, up-and-coming poets to read, but then also like, all of us.” 

“Oh wow,” Armie grins at them. “Sounds totally _sick_ , bros.”

Timmy laughs, “No seriously, it’s a great chance to listen to other people in the program. I don’t get a chance to hear what the poets are working on on a regular basis, you know?”

“Yeah!” Saoirse lights up at that, “It’s really just about supporting each other! But I do like getting young local poets to come out too. Like when we got Georgia Spickle.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Timmy throws his head back, “She was incredible.”

“But don’t worry, Armie. You wouldn’t be too old or too uncool to join us.” Saoirse winks at him.

“Well now I’m _sure_ that I would be both of those things, but the reading does sound like a good time.”

“You should read at the next one,” Saoirse elbows him, turns to Timmy. “Shouldn’t he?”

“Yeah,” Timmy agrees, “you totally should. When’s that, Sersh?”

“They’re always the last Friday of the month, so…” She pulls her phone out of her back pocket and taps the screen a few times. “Two weeks from tomorrow!”

“Alright then, Sersh.” Armie starts to back away from the coffee table. Timmy thinks that’s such a poet-y thing to do, drink his coffee black. Poet-y and crotchety. Maybe Armie actually is significantly older than them. Armie tips his cup up to them as he backs away, “I’ll pencil it into my schedule.”  
  


Bobert Pinneski reads for forty-five minutes about watching his neighbors trash get picked up and his family’s aging Irish Setter. Timmy spends the whole reading alternately picking non-existent lint off his jeans and staring at the back of Armie’s neck.

  
  
  


The thing is, it was only a little bit of a crush at first, born of the sheer height and incredible smile that Timmy simply had _not_ been expecting of any of the professors at his new school. And it started out just like that, Timmy being completely flustered any time they ran into each other.

From that first day in the lounge when they’d somehow gotten caught up talking about Timmy’s previous life as a drama student, to when Timmy accidentally figured out where his office was when he happened to be walking by one day and the door was open, Armie’s long legs up on his desk, displaying his size fifteen shoe to the entire fucking hall. Timmy felt his cheeks pink up when he realized that his eyes stuck on that sight so much that he had physically slowed down while walking, and Armie, noticing him staring, sprang up from his desk and calling out to him, “Timmy!”

“Hey!” Timmy had stopped walking, had gotten his feet mixed up, crossing one over the other and tucking a hand behind his head, looking up to see Armie leaning against his door frame, both hands in his pockets. He had felt like a pretzel for no reason, thought _why the fuck am I like this_? But thankfully Armie talked first.

“Hey, I don’t know if you saw, but right after we talked about it, the drama department said that they’re putting on _The Pillowman_.”

Timmy had untangled his feet, coming back to standing properly upright with them hip-width apart. Thought he probably shouldn’t think this much about how he’s standing, if it’s normal or not. “No, I didn’t. That’s wild.”

“I know, right? What are the chances.”)  
  


to the time Timmy’s printing a reading Greta assigned in the faculty print room and in swoops Armie, late for his class, scooping up stacks of paper and stapling them in a dizzying but efficiently organized order, before coming over to the printer that was actively spitting out paper, flipping one sheet up, and saying, “LeGuin, nice,” and waggling his eyebrows at Timmy on his way out the door--  
  


to the times he drops by the MFA lounge seemingly just to chat.   
  


The next time there are more students around, and he charms them just like he apparently charms everyone, telling a story about one of his professors during his PhD who made them write a monologue entirely out of dialogue they overheard in some public place, the lunacy of the assignment, and how he ended up stringing together a heroic tale of a couple bonding and restoring their strained marriage after helping a mother find her lost child in a mall. He tells the story with his entire body, his entire hugely gorgeous body, and Timmy just never stood any chance. 

  
  


On Saturday night, Timmy’s watching The Walking Dead with a bowl of air-pop popcorn and one hand down his pants ( _not_ his popcorn hand, he’s sad but not _that_ sad), when Saoirse texts.

Saoirse: working on the flier for the show. you’re down to read too, right?

Timmy swears out loud and wipes his popcorn hand across his mouth. Because he fucking _did_ tell her he would read at the next one, but that was before she went and asked Armie to read at it too. And now how the hell was he supposed to just be normal about it?

T: uhhh yeah, for sure

Saoirse: lol you promised

T: and i will do it  
T: i just  
T: are you going to make me say it?

Saoirse: lol no, you’re afraid to read in front of Armie  
Saoirse: i get it. it’s cute

Timmy flops backward on the couch and groans. Literally god damn it. Because yes, essentially that was the problem. He was barely a fucking writer. He didn’t know how to do readings and shit. Well, like, he knew it was similar to acting, like just get the fuck up there and sell it like any other performance. But his own writing felt different. It always felt like surgery on himself, like any time he read it out loud suddenly he could see all his pores and pimples he hadn’t realized he had, and the yellow between his teeth.

T: you better have good wine

Saoirse: PROMISE  
Saoirse: I’ll get my favorite pinot noir just for you bb  
  
  


Later that night Timmy sees the flier on her instagram. 

**LAST (BEST) FRIDAY  
** w/ words by 

FLORENCE PUGH  
TIMOTHÉE CHALAMET  
LUCAS HEDGES  
ARMIE HAMMER

@ 78 Lindon St – 7 p.m. dull

Timmy stuffs his phone under the couch cushion and leaves it there until he drags himself to bed.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day before the reading, Timmy confides in a friend that he's nervous and some other stuff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this chapter was supposed to have the reading in it too, but then it got kind of long, so i cut it in half. i'm very sorry that you have to wait until next week to find out what kind of poetry armie writes
> 
> also, sorry i haven't replied to any comments yet, i will! but thank you all for every single one. i cherish them. xoxox

The Thursday before the reading, Timmy knocks on Kiernan’s mostly shut office door. Her lights are off and she has a salt lamp plugged in on her desk which gives the whole office a pink glow. Not only does she do all the administrative work for the entire MFA program, but she also seems to serve as the defacto therapist. In a self-appointed way.

Timmy knocks and hears her call out, “Come in!” Kiernan looks up from behind her desk, where she is clearly buried under work, but nonetheless, she lights up when she sees Timmy, raises her arms out to him as he comes through the door. “Oh, Timmy! Hi! Good to see you. How is your day so far?” She fires off, while shuffling a bunch of papers back into folders and shutting them.

Timmy loves Kiernan’s office. There are three completely stuffed bookshelves to the right when you come in the door, a couch on one end of the office which faces her desk, where she sits perched behind an always overflowing inbox, stacks and stacks of folders always post-it-noted six ways from Sunday. But the chaos is mitigated by the row of potted succulents in her window, and the bulletin board of cards from past MFA students who she’s helped through their time here, the low light and the glow of the salt lamp.

Timmy heaves a huge sigh and aims his body for her couch. “Ugh, I’m mostly good. This semester’s not as bad as last one, but…”

“But what, my dear? It can’t be Greta.”

“No, no, Greta’s awesome. No, it’s not a school work thing, everything’s pretty manageable this semester.”

“Oh, so then, is it a… personal thing?”

Timmy sighs deeply and picks up one of her couch cushions to hold onto. “I never thought I’d be this person, but,” his eyes shoot to the door where it is still open a crack, “I have a… crush? Kind of? And it’s making everything hard.”

“Ooooh!” Kiernan abandons the folder she had been flipping through and twirls her chair to fully face Timmy on the couch. “Dish! Who is it?

Timmy brings the pillow up to his face and says into it “Armie Hammer” so it sounds like MPH-ME HMPH-ER and he hears Kiernan snort.

“What was that? I didn’t _quite_ catch it.”

Timmy brings the pillow down, still hugging it with both arms, but so that his upper lip can be seen over the top of it. He whispers, “Armie Hammer,” while not making eye contact with Kiernan.

“Oooh,” Kiernan’s eyes glitter at him, “Yes, he’s very funny. Always the star of our department meetings.”

“Yeah, he’s… he’s just very funny.” 

“Yeah, sure that’s where you were going with that.”

“I mean…” Timmy’s been pink since he took the pillow away from his face, but if it’s possible he goes pinker.

“You don’t even need to say it. I have eyes, okay?”

Timmy pulls his knees up on the couch and giggles into them. “Yeah. Okay, so, that. Yes. But also you can tell he’s an incredibly talented playwright, just the way he tells his stories, you can tell that he has a great grasp of what makes humans interesting and complicated and engaging…”

“Oh wow, you are like… really gone aren’t you?”

Burying his face in his knees again, he mumbles through them, “I haven’t even gotten to the worst part yet.”

“Oh my god, _Timmy_ , what is going on?!”

“No nothing, well, not nothing, but…”

Kiernan waves her hand in a circle telling him to just get on with it. 

“Well, Saoirse invited him to read at her living room reading that she has?” He doesn’t know why he phrases it like a question. It’s not one.

“Oooh!” Kiernan leans forward in her chair. “So you’re obviously going.”

“She booked me for the same one, so I’m not only going, I’m _reading_.”

“Oh shit!” Kiernan’s whole face lights up at that. “What are you going to read? You should--” She cuts herself off and covers her mouth laughing, “You should read your story about when you got a blowjob backstage in--”

“KIERNAN! Oh my god. I should absolutely _not_ do that.”

She’s still giggling. “Why not?”

Timmy knocks the heels of his boots together, not making eye contact again. “I want him to think I’m smart, okay?”

“Oh _boy_ , you’ve got it bad.” She folds her hands and leans across her desk, her eyebrows setting into a serious look. “Timmy? You are incredibly smart. Regardless of what Armie fucking Hammer thinks, okay?”

Timmy looks up at her, the person who he first confided in that he had no idea what he was doing as a writer and that he felt like a fraud and way too young in this program of other established writers with books and with years of teaching experience, people who had been on national tours and here’s Timmy, fresh out of his undergrad with a BA in Theater. What the hell was he doing?

He sighs. Moves the pillow off his lap and back to where it was on the couch when he came in. “Thank you. For saying that. Even if I don’t feel like it’s true.”  
  
“Well, it is true. But I’m also willing to bet that he thinks you're a pretty good writer already, being as… you’re in this program, and you’re doing the same reading as him. But… good luck okay? I’ll be thinking of you.”

“Okay, thank you. I’ll let you know how it goes.” 

“You better.”

With that, Timmy leaves the safe, pink hue of her office, and heads back for the MFA lounge. 

  
  


Timmy takes his usual place around the square table in the small classroom they have workshop in and Saoirse sets her bag down beside him. Greta hasn’t come in yet, but the students get settled, shuffling their papers and notebooks around.

“Ugh, I can’t _wait_ for this weekend. I am so behind on reading.”

Timmy nods, but says, “I can.”

Her laugh is short and quick, like she gets the joke, but also that he isn’t joking. “Aw, Timmy. Don’t be so nervous. It’ll be great!”

He whispers even though the other students in their class aren’t paying any attention to them. “I can’t help it. I’ve never done a reading like this before. I know it will be fine, I’m just….”

“No, I get it. It’s not an easy thing. But that’s why the living room reading is so great! It’s cozy and it’s just a few people, mostly friends. I promise, it’s way better than any other kind of reading if you’re nervous.”

“Okay, that does sound… more okay than doing it for the first time in a more official setting. I just… I still haven’t decided what I’m reading and—”

“Read the one about the blowjob!” She says it kind of loudly, and also like it will _obviously_ solve his problem.

Ansel, from the other side of the table goes, “That _is_ a great story, Timmy.”

“Thanks Ansel,” Timmy projects before whispering again to Saoirse, “but _oh my god_ , I don’t know if I can read that one. Why is everyone saying that?”

Saoirse laughs again, “It’s a great story! It’s funny and awkward and really lets you inside the head of young people navigating their way through the confusing world of sex for the first time—”

Greta opens the door to the classroom with her back, a big tray of cookies in one hand, “Hello my beautiful students. I stole these for you from the meeting that I was in that ran over, so I am sorry, but also you’re welcome.”

Everyone immediately forgives her, but Timmy keeps thinking that he’s pretty sure he does _not_ want to read a story about being young and dumb about sex in front of Armie Hammer tomorrow night even if it seems like everyone thinks that his best story. He really doesn’t know what the fuck to do, but he does have a chocolate chip cookie now, so clearly you win some, you lose some.   
  
  


The faculty printing room is through a set of double doors and a supply closet. Timmy ducks through the doors just after workshop to print the fucking blowjob story in case he does decide to read it tomorrow. He prints two others as well, one about a mail carrier and one about a local movie theater that decided to show Rocky Horror at midnight on Halloween for the first time. 

He’s scrolling Twitter when he hears footsteps coming towards the copy room. He fumbles his phone around trying to jam it back into his pocket and pick up all his papers from the still-printing printer. He doesn’t know why he feels caught out in the faculty copy room, but it feels like being a Master's student is this liminal space between being still in school and being a teacher, and Timmy knows which one he feels like more of most of the time. 

He’s separating the pages from the first two stories, the mailman and the theater one, into two piles while the printer finishes the blowjob one when he hears, “Timmy! Hey, making some copies?”

Armie and his long stride cross the room to the supply closet in three long steps and Timmy doesn’t know whether to turn around or stay put, so he just says, “Ugh, sort of.”

He hears the printer finish his last story and turns to get it, sees the back of Armie’s head as he’s poking around in the boxes of binder clips and paper clips. Armie’s standing pretty close to the printer that his story was coming out of and he feels his hair start to stand on end as he walks closer to Armie’s big frame where he’s still looking in the closet. “How do you _sort_ _of_ make copies, Timmy?” He must have found what he was looking for because he turns around and they end up pretty close to each other, closer than they’ve maybe ever been before. 

Timmy reaches out to pull his papers off the copier, but Armie’s closer, so he flips them up, shifts them together between his two hands so all the pages are even while Timmy is very aware that he’s worrying his bottom lip.

“Um, I’m just printing options for the reading tomorrow night.”

“Ah.” Armie doesn’t hand him the pages. “Can I… peak?”

Timmy feels the blood in his cheeks, his face hot, he hopes he doesn’t come off as pathetic as he feels when he pleads, “Please don’t.”

“Aw, why Timmy? I’m excited to hear it tomorrow.” But he hands the papers back, concern creasing his brow.

Timmy’s arms go wide and his gaze falls to Armie’s shoes as he lets out a sigh. “Sorry, I don’t know. I’m just really nervous.”

Armie reaches out a hand to his elbow, cups it and wraps his fingers around the back of his arm. His hand is warm and soft and Timmy thinks he’s going to pass out, that his heart might beat right out of his chest, or that Armie will comment on it and he’ll die of embarrassment.

“You’ll be great. I know you will. You’ve had more practice in front of audiences than most writers will get in their entire lifetime.”

And Timmy thinks, _Fuck. He’s right_. And not only is he right, _but he believes in me because of something he is already sure of about me._ He doesn’t know how to handle the emotion that wells up in him at that. He tries to bring his eyes up to Armie’s, but they’re still standing too close to each other. Armie’s hand is still on his elbow. 

He drops it, like he could hear Timmy thinking that they were still touching. 

“Thank you.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

And with that, he’s gone. 

  
  


Timmy tries really hard not to think about the reading. He has his copies of each story all set. He doesn’t even have to decide which one to read until it’s actually happening if he doesn’t want to. He just needs to mentally survive until then and he’ll be good.

On the TV, Rick is probably dying on a couch from a gunshot wound, and Timmy is pretty close to thinking fuck this show, he can’t handle another show that just kills everyone all the time, but instead of doing anything about it like changing the channel or something, he just gets lost in his phone. Scrolling. 

He doesn’t know where it comes from but he starts thinking about being on his knees for some anonymous guy in a suit. And he lives alone okay? So if he’s watching TV and suddenly horny out of nowhere, he can masturbate on the couch if he wants. It’s low level at first, not the horniest he’s ever been, but it’s there, lurking in the back of his head. 

He imagines watching this guy spread his thighs, how they flex and fill out the bottom of his suit pants. Imagines his fingers undoing his fly, being able to see his cock already through his pants, but feeling his mouth fill with saliva as he watches him lower the zipper. Imagines a large hand on his jaw that holds him right where this man wants him, suckling just on the head while he gets the rest of the way hard.

Timmy ends up writhing around, his sweatpants around his ankles, his knees bent and spread as wide as the couch, his head under one of the cushions, his hand frantically jerking his cock. He’s dimly aware that he’s making little mewling moans into the cushion where it’s blocking out all the light in the room. 

The guy in his head goes from pulling his mouth up and down his cock, to pushing him down to lap at his balls, he hears him say, _yeah, get them all wet, fuck your tongue feels so good_. Timmy imagines the guy taking his cock in his other hand, jacking off while he sucks on his balls, wants that to be what puts him over the edge, wants him to come when he didn’t think he would, wants it bubble up out of him, to run down his hand, keep leaking out of him until it runs down Timmy’s cheek.

Timmy scrambles to pull his shirt up, turning his head into the pillow and pushing it into the couch, exhaling a wet moan as he comes all up his belly. In the jumble of things his brain does while he’s coming, the guy pats him on his come-covered cheek and he looks up and sees Armie’s eyes, Armie’s big palm smearing his own come on Timmy’s face, and Timmy’s orgasm keeps pounding through him and he thinks _fuck, I’m fucked, this is so fucking fucked_.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The living room reading happens. That's basically it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, this got away from me

Friday comes, and all day Timmy perseverates about what he’s going to read, what he’s going to wear, when he should leave to get the bus, what he’s going to eat beforehand.

The more he thinks about it, the more he feels like he absolutely _can’t_ read the blowjob story. It’s somewhat the idea of reading out loud the part where the tip of his dick was in another person’s mouth for the first time ever and the prop box he was leaning on skidded backwards which caused a few things simultaneously: the kid to accidentally bite him (just a little! but still), him to kick the kid in the stomach (pretty hard), and a lot of loud noises from all of those three things when they were supposed to be being as secretive as possible obviously, because there was an entire live audience in the theater. But mostly it’s the idea of then saying out loud what happened next, that because of that incident and the subsequent trouble that the entire theater department got in, that he stayed away from sex for three years, that he was a virgin until his junior year of college. 

Timmy puts the couch pillow back over his face as he imagines admitting that in a room where Armie Hammer is sitting, looking at him with his big grin and his big eyes and all his fucking eyelashes. He probably fucked twelve people by the time he was a junior in college. At least. He probably already thinks of him as such a kid, and what a better way to demonstrate that he really is one by telling a room full of people that he only had sex for the first time two years ago.

He pulls his black jeans from the top of the pile and puts them on first. He feels like that’s the only straightforward part of getting dressed, but only because he really only has one pair of jeans that he wears. He digs around in the back of his biggest drawer for his favorite maroon sweater. Not only does he love the way it looks on him, but it’s soft and comforting, and with his dark jeans and his boots, he thinks he’ll look sufficiently like an actual writer, despite whatever questionable, juvenile words come out of his mouth.   
  
  


Timmy knocks on the dark green door and Saoirse opens it with a big smile, looking flushed, but also flawless in a cream sweater and with a glass of wine in one hand.

“Timmy! Hi, _so_ glad you’re here! Come in, come in.” She pulls him into a hug with one arm, sweeping him into the apartment and shutting the door behind him.

Florence is on him immediately too. He unwinds from Saoirse’s embrace only to be pulled into Flo’s. “She hasn’t shut up about your reading all day. It’s bordering on insufferable really. So now _I’m_ on pins and needles waiting to hear this fucking story too—”

“Oh, I decided I’m reading something different,” Timmy deadpans. “I’ve been working on this story about watching my neighbor’s dog take a shit every morning—”

“TIMMY,” Saoirse shrieks before she hides her giggles in Flo’s shoulder.

When she yells his name, Timmy can’t help but look around, try to get the lay of the land and see if Armie is already here, and if he was, if he were now aware that Timmy was also. The kitchen was moderately full of people, girls with bobs tied back on the top with bobby pins and sweaters, skinny men with round glasses drinking wine, a small group of people clustered around the kitchen table with some cheese and crackers on it. He doesn’t see Armie anywhere, but he could still be in the living room.

“I honestly wish you would read a story all about shit. That would be at least something different than the usual drivel we get in workshop.” Saoirse covers her mouth after she says it as if maybe she can stuff it back in, not speak ill of the other members of their cohort. 

“Okay, wine!” Flo announces, grabbing Timmy by one hand and moving further into the kitchen.

She pours from an open bottle of pinot noir on the counter, hands him a wide rounded tumbler with no stem.

“Thank you.”

“You are very welcome, Timo,” Flo nods at him with her eyes closed. “Now go mingle! The most important part of the living room reading is the in-between-readers part!” 

Timmy makes his way into the living room, and scans the room for Armie. He’s not in there either, so he must not have arrived yet. Timmy drinks his pinot noir and tries to chill out. It looks like most of the furniture has been arranged so that there is a clear area for a stage and everything else is facing it. He steps over an ottoman to reach a chair tucked into one corner and gets comfortable. He keeps checking the room, to see if he knows anyone, but he doesn’t yet. So he pulls out the folded square of paper in his pocket and looks over his story.

It’s 7:10 when he hears Armie arrive. He hears his loud voice in the kitchen, imagines that maybe he’s wearing a scarf when he comes in the door, maybe his face looks a little wind-chapped like he walked to Saoirse’s house. He hears Florence yell about getting him a drink, and Timmy suddenly wishes he were talking to anyone, so he doesn’t look lame in the corner by himself. He _so_ isn’t prepared to handle this at all, at all, at all.

But then Flo appears in the doorway of the living room, without Armie, he must be talking to someone in the kitchen, but Flo smiles at Timmy big and comes over and flops on the ottoman.

“So tell me about Greta’s class this semester. Sersh says it’s incredible, but we know she’s biased.”

Timmy laughs, “No, she’s right. It is incredible. It’s not just because Sersh has a crush on her.”

“Okay, good, cuz I want this program to be everything she wanted when we moved here, you know, not just hot professors, which,” Flo wipes her brow dramatically, “it seems like there are _a lot_ of.”

“Right?” Timmy leans forward, lowering his voice. 

As if on cue, Armie enters the living room, sipping a beer and casting his eyes around. Before he gets to Timmy and Flo in the corner, he must see someone he knows because his head tips up and his arms go out in a big greeting. 

Flo pats Timmy on the knee, bringing his attention back and says, “I’m going to go play host some more. Let me know if you need more wine, okay?”

“Okay, thanks.”

She gets up and Timmy is left in the corner by himself. He thinks, maybe he could look over his story some more, but also, he doesn’t want Armie to see him just in the corner by himself, so he decides that he’ll go to the bathroom. He leaves his keys on top of his folded up story on the chair and looks pointedly towards the doorway as he picks his way through the furniture and out of the room. 

  
  


On his way out of the bathroom, Timmy’s making his way through the short hallway back towards the kitchen and almost bumps into someone in the frame of the doorway. 

“Sorry!” He says, still wiping his wet hands on his jeans. 

“No, my bad,” Armie says, reaching out to clap him on the shoulder. “I should look before I duck down a dark hallway.”

“And I should keep my head up, instead of always looking at my feet when I walk,” Timmy says, noticing that he’s doing it now too. Looking at his feet, instead of up at Armie like he should be. 

He forces himself to bring his eyes up. Armie’s smile is close and warm. “I’m excited to hear you read.”

“I hope I don’t disappoint. I’m most likely going to read a story about the first blowjob I ever got, so…”

Armie’s eyes crinkle at the corners and he pushes his palm into Timmy’s shoulder again. “Now _that_ will definitely not disappoint me. But what do you mean, most likely? You haven’t fully decided?” He checks his watch. “It’s 7:17!”

“The flier did say seven p.m. dull.”

“That it did.”

Timmy’s feeling cuddly and more confident than he thought he would, like the sweater is actually making a difference, like the wine is making his cheeks slightly pink, but in a cute way. He’s pretty sure that Armie’s flirting with him, and he’s pretty sure that they’re getting along. 

“Well, I won’t be reading anything nearly that interesting. I just have some dumb poems about transitional scenes in important plays.”

Timmy feels his whole body come away from the wall and move towards Armie when he says that. “Really? Which plays?”

“I have a whole series of them. Some famous shit like Macbeth and Les Mis, but mostly smaller plays that I saw when I was younger, scenes that really stuck with me, that made me want to learn about writing.”

If Timmy knew what swooning looked like, he would probably worry that he was doing it, and be thankful that in the next minute, Saoirse comes through the house yelling, “Get seats everyone, reading’s starting!” 

“Well, we better…” and Timmy goes to move forward, but Armie is in his way, so Armie laughs and backs up, turns around. Timmy is struck once more by his huge shoulders and how much of the doorframe he takes up as he walks behind him to the living room. And if his eyes seek out his ass on the way, no one has to know. 

  
  


Back in his seat in the corner, Timmy starts gulping his wine.

Saoirse is standing in the small clearing, hands clasped, waiting for everyone to get settled. She projects her voice as she says, “Thank you so much everyone for coming out tonight. We have a whole line-up of incredible writers and story-tellers here for you this evening, and not that I have a favorite or anything, because I _don’t_ but our _first_ reader is by far the most beautiful, and when I asked her for an author bio, she said, ‘just tell them that I sleep next to you every night’.” She pauses for a laughter break, “So please give a warm welcome to the living room stage for the woman I sleep next to every night, Florence Pugh!” 

Florence stands up, touching the shoulders of people sitting in chairs as she passes, and winds her way through the people sitting on the floor. Saoirse kisses her soundly as she passes and swipes at her butt. 

“Um, so, I’m not really a writer, but I do tell stories.” She exudes an air of comfortability that Timmy immediately envies. “So, I’m going to tell two—maybe three—stories. We’ll see how it goes.” She looks at the face of a little gold watch on her wrist, before looking back up to her audience.

Timmy doesn’t remember the last time he laughed so hard. Flo is mid-story about a time one of her family’s goats got out. She’s animated and it feels like she’s just sitting with you, an old friend, but like, your funniest friend that you’ve ever had. By the time she’s describing her uncle leading the goat back up the road by one tattered leg of his pants, the entire room is in stitches, some wiping tears from their eyes. 

Saoirse comes climbing through the people sitting on the floor, wiping at her own eyes, and says, “My god, Flo, you’ve outdone yourself.” She dissolves into laughter again before saying, “Okay, okay, we’re going to go fiction, poetry, fiction, poetry, so that means Lucas is up next!

Timmy vaguely knows Lucas. They met maybe on the first day of the program, and he’s been in the lounge a few times while they were all waiting around for workshop to start. He really doesn’t know any of the poets. Lucas looks quiet and unassuming, his head ducked as he makes his way to the front of the room.

“Hi, everyone. I’m, uh, Lucas… Lucas Hedges, and I’m going to read some poems for you.” The room erupts in applause, still not calmed down from Flo’s rousing opening. Timmy feels like they are at once, exactly the audience that Lucas needs, and also entirely not fit for whatever vibe he has. He unfolds a sheaf of papers and Timmy notices they’re shaking, the tops of the papers vibrating in his hand. “Uh, yeah, so the first one is called ‘Bend in the River’.”

As his reading goes on, he explains how all the poems are from a series he’s working on this semester which are all about old closeted hollywood actors and the movies they stared in. How he’s using the opportunity of these poems to tell the stories those stories could have told if the characters were gay, if the men who played them could have brought their own stories to the roles. He reads “Back to God’s Country”, “One Desire”, and he closes with “All That Heaven Allows”. Timmy thinks that he’s never heard poetry he actually liked this much. He’s kind of shocked. He has to find Lucas later and tell him how awesome he is, how glad he is that they’re coinciding in the same program. 

Lucas bobs his head, and says “Thank you, everyone, for listening,” and the crowd goes nuts, whooping and cheering, while Saoirse clamours back to the center of the room.

“And now, we will hear from the incredible Timothée Chalamet! Who did respond to my request for a bio, but which I will now ignore and just say that Timmy is one of my favorite writers that I know. So without further adieu, Timothée Chalamet!”

A steady stream of _fuck fuckfuck fuck_ starts up in his head and feels his palms get sweaty as he stands up, and steps into the middle of the living room. When he turns to see everyone, he feels a little light-headed, and wonders what would happen if he just passed out, if the people sitting cross-legged on the floor would catch him. He looks to the back corner of the room where Armie’s standing and clapping for him, his face still, but open. 

He takes his wadded up story out of the front pocket of his pants and clears his throat.

“Uh, hi, everyone. Thanks Saoirse and Flo for having me. Flo, you’re incredible. I haven’t laughed that hard in god knows how long. And uh, Lucas. Great reading, man. Let’s talk later, please.” He trails off, not sure if that was what he meant to say, or how he wanted to open. He looks down at his papers in his hand and remembers that he’s supposed to be introducing himself also. “I’m Timmy. I’m in the same program as Saoirse and Lucas, maybe some of you know that. And uh, I’m going to read a story about the worst blowjob ever.”

The room erupts, and Timmy thinks, okay, this is pretty okay actually. He puts on his monologue voice and starts reading from the beginning, from being kind of in love with the Stage Manager from Stage Right, which unfortunately for everyone in the entire theater program in his high school, was right near the flies. 

He barely notices the time going by. He’s full of the same adrenaline that being on stage gives him, he’s looking in people’s general direction, but he doesn’t see them. Before he knows it, he’s almost to the end of the story.

“I tell this story to the boy I like sophomore year and when he says, ‘you got your entire run of a play cancelled in high school over a blowjob that you barely even got?’ I swore off sex then and there for another year after that.”

And everyone laughs. Instead of pitying him, like he thought maybe they would. And then it’s over and everyone claps really loud and when he looks towards where Armie’s leaning against the wall in the corner, he’s looking at him like he’s incredible, clapping loudly with his hands up by his face. Timmy stumbles back to his corner, bringing his feet up onto the chair where was sitting before, and curls up in a little ball, but smiling. He can feel the energy in the room, that it went well, but he is also so fucking grateful that it’s over. 

When Saoirse calls Armie to the front of the room, Timmy is still reeling from his own reading, and that might be part of it, but not all of it when after the first words out of Armie’s mouth, Timmy thinks “I’d marry him. Fuck it if I think marraige is a stupid convention for straights, I’d marry him.” 

Armie’s saying, “It’s so fucking cool to see what the MFA students do. I love that I get to teach for a school that has such an exciting program. And now you all have to listen to my boring poems about my favorite scenes from plays, so _ha_.” 

But Timmy thinks they’re _anything_ but. They’re tender and Armie’s use of sound blows his mind. His voice as he reads them is slow like each word is honey in his mouth, as he describes scenes of self-reflection in plays that morph into scenes of self-reflection for himself, the poet. Timmy feels the music of his words like it’s touching something in his belly. He thinks, _fuck_ , _this, this is what poetry is supposed to do._ Like how could he have missed it before?

And in between his reading, he cracks jokes and has everyone in the room hanging on his every word. Timmy wonders if the room felt this way while he was reading and thinks probably not. But it’s palpable, the feeling that everyone is completely enchanted. 

And then between each poem, he has the audacity to be fucking charming. Timmy thinks he is for sure in actual love. Like, fuck, really, Armie’s not just gorgeous, he’s also a capital P poet, and a flawless performer. Timmy feels like he should take notes on how Armie reads his poems, how he communicates the emotion, so clear, like the undercurrent of the words is floating on the top of the room, like all Timmy has to do is reach up and touch it. 

The whole time he just thinks my god, he is really, really, really, fucked.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of the reading + a surprise announcement from Luca

Timmy finishes the last swallow of wine from his glass and puts it in Saoirse’s kitchen sink. 

He jumps when he hears, “You were really great,” and finds Armie standing right behind him, reaching to put his beer bottle on the counter next to the sink. He laughs, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“No, no. I don’t know why I was so focused on putting my glass in the sink, like…” Timmy makes a motion with his hands towards the sink from his brain.

Armie chuckles. “I mean it though, Timmy. Your reading was excellent. It’s clear that theater has prepared you well to tell stories.”

Timmy feels his flush get deeper than it already was. “Uh, thanks. That… means a lot. You—you were excellent too. I feel like I uh… understood poetry actually for the first time maybe ever?”

Armie’s eyes crinkle at the corners. “Really? Wow. That is quite a compliment.”

“Yeah, I just… you have a way of reading it so that it’s crystal clear. It was… powerful.”

“Sorry! Sorry to interrupt,” Saoirse has her hands full of glasses and jars and is pointed towards the sink. “I just need to—”

“Oh! Sorry!” Timmy jumps out of her way and then starts backing up towards the laundry room that’s off the kitchen where there’s a stack of coats on top of the washer.

Armie follows him into the small space. “I feel the same about what, uh, what you read too. I don’t think I’ve ever heard like, the humiliation of massively fucking up your first queer sexual encounter rendered so clearly before.”

Timmy stops looking for his coat in the pile and hangs his head. “Man, uh…”

Armie covers his face with his hand, “I didn’t mean that how it came out, I mean like..." 

“No!” Timmy almost shouts, “No, I got what you mean, thank you, I think….I’m just so not used to talking about my writing with anyone or like… anyone having heard it.”

“I get that… But that’s the cool thing about writing! That you get to tell these stories and other peopleknow _you_ know this unique kind of embarrassment! It—it’s a powerful healing thing, you know?” Timmy ducks his head again, not looking him in the eye, and Armie continues carefully, slowly. “Take me for example. Like I was a bunch older than you, but I still had that same awful amount of fear surrounding a similar experience... hooking up with a guy for the first time.”

Timmy looks up at that. Armie’s eyes are sincere. His gaze drifts off to the right as he continues.

“My head was just like ‘am I going to screw this up completely?’ Like… even worse because I was older you know? I was in my thirties. I should know how to have sex by then right? But no, I felt exactly like you did as a teenager, back stage, in the fucking dark, literally and figuratively, Timmy,” his eyes come back to Timmy’s like he’s pleading with him, “you have to realize your brilliance in that story—but at the same time experiencing something so important, so life affirming, but then having it just… not go how you wanted it to.”

He drifts off, but Timmy doesn’t say anything, too lost for words, too overwhelmed by the experience of having someone connect with something he wrote, maybe for the first time ever. 

“Your story even capitalized on that,” Armie says breathy, with awe. “Like not everyone gets the dramatic climax of the entire school knowing how awful your first blowjob went, but… something quietly going wrong is almost worse, you know? Because then you’re the only person who knows and you think there’s just something wrong with you and no one ever tells you that you’re not alone. Until you hear it out of someone else’s mouth. So thank you, Timmy. For that.”

Timmy’s a little dumbfounded. He looks up and Armie’s eyes have a shine to them, a glisten. “What happened to you?”

Armie rolls his shoulders around, stuffs his hands in his pockets. “Ah, well… nothing that special. But I was just so insecure, and I’d met the guy on Grindr and I just wanted it to be like really sexy? But instead it was really awkward? And I couldn’t get off because we were outside, which I thought would be hot, but it just… it just wasn’t what I thought it was going to be.”

It’s Armie’s turn to avoid eye contact while Timmy seeks him out. “I’m sorry, Armie.” He has no idea how he ended up here in Saoirse’s laundry room having a conversation about Armie’s first gay hookup gone wrong, but he wouldn’t trade it for anything. He can’t believe that this big, beautiful man feels comfortable confiding in him. “That sounds… really discouraging and painful. I’m… I see what you mean… about why my story could help.”

“Yeah, you, uh, you nailed it, kid.” Armie claps him on the shoulder and then reaches past him, digs his coat out from the pile in one scoop. It’s kind of a smooth move and Timmy feels like the energy has shifted again, like this is the Armie he knows from around campus again, sauve, genial. “I gotta get going, but I’ll see you around. And I’m looking forward to hearing more of your writing.”

“Uh, yeah,” Timmy feels flustered again, “same, uh, same to you.”

And with that, Armie turns and is gone from the laundry room, leaving Timmy to find his coat from the pile, to remember how to put it on correctly, to check his pockets for his keys and hat, and start bundling up. 

  
  
  


Next Thursday, Timmy’s in Luca’s class, in the same desk he always sits in in the dark room, with his tea next to his notebook. He’s scribbling notes on Luca’s lecture, and then notes for story ideas in the margins, maybe Armie’s name once or twice sneaks in, whatever. He purposely lets his handwriting get bad while he does it so it’s illegible, in case someone were to look, but he knows what it is. 

It’s 8:45, almost the end of class and Timmy is fading fast. He sips his tea trying to will his eyes not to slide closed.

“So next week, I will not be here. You should see on your syllabus that our next meeting was crossed off the calendar because I will be attending a conference, but! You are all in luck, because we instead will have a guest-lecturer who will give us his insight on the _art_ of _scene_ —our own Armie Hammer.”

There are a few gasps from the class. 

“Yes, yes, I am aware you all know and love him. I thought he could offer a fresh perspective on this subject, and so I asked him if he would be able to teach you, and he agreed.”

A few students are whispering to each other. Saoirse has ripped a full page out of her notebook and thrown it straight at Timmy's face. When he opens it, it just says “ ! ! ! ! ! ! ”

“Be _aware_ …. however… he has let me know that he will be assigning a fair amount of reading. So please plan accordingly and be prepared for the discussion that he no doubt will be looking forward to. Do not disappoint him.”

Timmy thinks he would _never_ want to be a part of disappointing Armie. How does Luca know that?

“I forwarded him our class e-mail list and he said he will be sending along reading by the latest tomorrow morning, so you will have enough time. Okay, good night for now. See you in two weeks!”

The class wishes Luca luck on his trip to the conference and Timmy gathers up his things, stuffing his notebooks and class folder into his backpack and putting on his coat.

“Can you fucking _believe this_?” Saoirse is suddenly in his ear whispering. “What are the chances?”

Timmy laughs, “I dunno, Sersh. But it will be cool to hear from Armie about this! Instead of a fiction writer, we get to hear from a playwright about scene construction.” 

“Okay, Timmy, sure, that’s what you’re thinking about. I believe you. You’re not just freaking out about getting to see Armie’s teacher face. Okay, sure.”

“Shut _up_ ,” Timmy takes a swipe at her and she dodges him easily.

“I totally believe you that you’re not already planning on how you can start the reading he assigns as early as possible, so you have the _best_ things to say about it in class, mhm, sure. You’re totally normal about this.”

“ _Saoirse_ , I swear to god,” He is looking around for anyone from their class who might be hearing this, but they’ve all dispersed. “So what if I am? Hm? So what.”

Saoirse’s smiling that small little smile that takes over when she’s truly tickled about something. “We can discuss it before workshop that day too. Bounce some ideas off each other before you have to air them out in front of the Hammer himself.”

“Literally shut the fuck up.”

Saoirse's cackle echoes down the entire hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i can't believe i hit 10k words with this fic! crazy to me. thank you all for reading and kudosing and commenting i just,,,,, love you all <3333


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Timmy reads mostly. There's also some gossip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> clearly I have no idea how many chapters this will or will not be

The e-mail comes in at 7:16 a.m. on Friday morning. Timmy reads it while still in bed.  
  


_Hello all,_

_Attached you will find five sections from plays with specific highlighted scenes that I would like to closely examine for our class next week. I have provided the extra material as the context for each is important. We will primarily discuss the elements that make each scene successful and compelling while moving the action forward._

_Looking forward to our conversation,_

_Armie Hammer, PhD  
_ _Professor of Playwriting  
  
_

As promised, there are five attached files that are each about forty or fifty pages with a highlighted section somewhere in the middle. Timmy scrolls through them. Shakespeare, Arthur Miller, _4000 Miles_ , and then he’s surprised to see that Armie’s included a few movies, sections from _Silence of the Lambs,_ and _21 Grams_ round out the readings. 

He thinks this class is probably going to be really cool. He’s thrilled that Luca is using this as an opportunity for them to hear another perspective, and he’s even more thrilled that that perspective is coming from Armie Hammer. Timmy wants to start reading, but he has to get up. He has his work study job at the campus Wellness Center at nine and class in the afternoon.   
  


Part of the awesomeness of his work study job is that he can get reading done as long as no one’s coming in, and for the most part, Friday mornings are very slow. There are no workshops running at this time, and usually only two people in the offices who are taking drop in questions about alcohol and drug abuse or sexual health. Usually the only people he sees coming in or out are looking for free condoms. 

He settles in behind the desk at two minutes before nine. Says hello to the staff who check in with him on the way to their offices. He takes out his laptop and his fingers hover over the readings deciding where to start. The Shakespeare he’s read before, drama highschool _hello_ , but he still wants to review it with the class subject in mind and freshen his perspective. But he’s also tempted to start the movie scripts. He’s never read the script for _Silence of the Lambs_ and he’s never even seen _21 Grams._ He decides he’ll review the Shakespeare, sort of a low level of brain activity for while he’s at work. He opens the file and starts to read. 

No one comes in or out of the building, and his feet find their way up to rest crossed over each other on the side of the desk, one hand scrolling, the other roaming out to his left. So sue him if he muscles his way through most of _King Lear_ with his right hand fully in a bowl of condoms. 

And if he pockets a few, well he does that from time to time anyway. Everyone should. 

  
  


That afternoon before his three p.m. class, Timmy’s in the lounge with Saoirse. 

“I need this weekend so bad. I am so behind on reading,” Saoirse moans. 

“We’re almost there, Sersh. It’s literally Friday.”

“I know but I’ve barely made it. I’m two hundred pages behind where I should be in _East of Eden_.”

“She’s evil. The end.”

“Oh come on, you can’t—”

“Happy Friday you young and brilliant miscreants!”

Armie’s voice comes through the door before he does, which gives Timmy that extra half-second to prepare for his presence. Enough to check to make sure his body was slouched nonchalantly in the chair he was sitting in, his feet artfully crossed, book splayed on his lap. 

“Hey Armie,” he says nodding to him. 

“Hey Armie!” Saoirse’s grinning like she always does around him. “I hear you’re guest-teaching the Art of the Scene next week!”

Armie lights up. “Yeah! I am. Luca asked me a few weeks ago when we were talking about the conference he’s going to.”

“It makes sense!” Timmy chimes in.

“Yeah, it’s going to be awesome. I’m sure that Luca and I have a totally different take on how to go about it. You’ll have to fill me in on how your class usually goes.”

“It’s a good opportunity for all of us,” Saoirse says.

“There’s going to be a lot of reading though, so be prepared!”

Saoirse makes a face like _oh sure._ “Oh, we heard. I think Timmy’s already started it.”

Armie’s smile crinkles the corner of his eyes and he turns to look at Timmy.

If Timmy had been drinking anything at the time he would have choked. But as he wasn’t, he just felt his grip get tighter on the book in his lap. “Uh, yeah. I uh, did actually. This morning. I like to get a head start on things.”

“I love that in a student.”

Timmy feels like his cheeks are on fire. He wants Armie to leave but he also wants him to stay forever. He doesn’t know where to look, so he turns to look at Saoirse who has her lips pulled into her mouth like she’s not saying something she really wants to.

“Well, I’m taking off for the day. But I will see you all next week.”

“Bye Armie,” Saoirse chirps. 

Timmy puts his head down on the desk after he leaves. “God Saoirse, could you make me sound like _any more_ of a nerd?!” 

“Oh shut up, you totally want to be his teacher’s pet. I did you a favor.”

He mumbles into the desk, “I’m begging you to just stop talking,” while Saoirse giggles away in the corner.

  
  


After his three p.m. class, Timmy’s making his way towards the stairs to leave for the day when he sees Kiernan’s door open a crack. He knocks, pushing the door farther open with two fingers and Kiernan looks up, a smile breaking over her face when she sees him.

“Timmy! Come in!”

“I know it’s been a week since I saw you. I’ve been in and out of here and really bogged down with work.”

“No worries! I know you’re busy.”

“No I know, but I specifically told you I would tell you about how the reading went.” He drops his backpack on the floor by her couch and sits down.

“That’s okay, Timmy, oh my god, you know I want to know, but we’re all busy, it’s fine.”

“No, I know, but I’ve been dying to tell you.”

“Well then!” She sits completely forward in her chair. “Spill.”

“Okay, so,” He sits forward too, hands up tented and covering his lips, “I’ll just get right into it. I read the blow job story—”

“Yes!” Kiernan pumps her fist in the air. “So glad you did.”

“Yeah, well me too because _afterwards_ ,” his voice is just above a whisper, and he keeps glancing towards the door which is still open a crack to the hallway, “Armie came and found me and told me that it really resonated with him _because of the uncertainty and awkwardness of gay sex at any age._ ”

Kiernan squeals. 

“Can you _fucking believe that_?”

She leans over her desk and nudges the door shut. “He said _what_?!”

“I mean, not in those exact words, but yes! He told me that when he was older it wasn’t any less painful, and that in fact, it felt _more_ painful maybe _because_ he was older. And that it’s always weird even though we feel like it shouldn’t be.”

“Oh my god, so not only did he tell you he was gay—”

“He didn’t really—”

“Well he like… implied that he likes men, right?”

“Yeah, _definitely_. He confirmed that he has had sex with men.”

“That’s. Timmy—I’m. I don’t know know how to process this.” Kiernan has her fingertips pressed to her forehead and her eyes closed. 

“I know! I know, it’s a lot.” 

“You’re like… actually getting somewhere.”

Timmy flops down on her couch, his whole back hitting the cushion at once. “I—I never thought I’d like actually be able to say that? And it seems fake to say it out loud? But it felt real… like while it was happening.”

“Holy shit, Timmy. You’re going to hook up with Armie Hammer.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Timmy (mostly) finishes his homework. Saoirse's still reading.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can you tell that my experience of grad school was mostly sitting around and eating in between classes while doing reading okay good bc that's what it was
> 
> also forgive me for not looking up Naomi Watts' character's name in 21 grams. I thought you all would probably appreciate me just saying it was Naomi Watts instead anyway.
> 
> oh, also, spoilers for 21 grams. it's slight, but it's there. in case anyone is like,,, planning on watching it soon. idk.

On Monday night, Timmy’s got his fat stack of papers, the collected group of scenes that Armie has assigned, on top of his legs criss-crossed on the couch. He has a steaming cup of Earl Grey on the coffee table in front of him and a highlighter cap in his mouth, the uncapped pen poised in his hand as he reads. 

He’s completely engaged throughout the whole scene of Naomi Watts having sex with the man who has her husband’s heart. She’s smoking afterwards and he can see the use of silence in the scene so well, the way the viewer has to sit with the knowledge of what has happened like the character does, and Timmy thinks of how he could use silence, how it could possibly translate into a short story, stillness, or emptiness even, thinks that might have been what was missing from one of his previous stories. He gets swept away thinking how strange writing is, that these random thoughts need to bump into each other in his brain. That things need to coincide in his life  _ just so _ in order for the scenes to present themselves.

He realizes he’s stopped paying attention to his reading and scans back over the page to see how long he’s been gone. He starts again at Naomi Watts’ lighting her cigarette. Reads her puff it in the early morning light and look around the motel room. 

Timmy thinks that morning light can be so lovely and so harsh depending on the circumstances. He thinks about being naked in bed with his ex-girlfriend in light like that and how it seemed perfect, but also too bright at the same time. He wonders if Armie ever woke up next to someone and felt like that. Too bright. But then he’s just picturing his chest with a sheet drawn up to his nipples, the way his biceps would look with his arms up around his head, sleeping. 

He realizes again that he’s drifted away and puts his papers on the coffee table, caps the highlighter. Because now he’s thinking about being in bed with Armie and he’s not stopping. He thinks about skimming his fingers along his back, down to his lower back to where it dips right before his ass. He thinks about kissing him, circling his nipple with one hand and feeling it stiffen. He shoves a hand into his sweatpants and cups his balls, rolls them in his hand as he feels the beginnings of arousal moving through his groin. 

He thinks about touching Armie that way, rolling his balls in his hand, holding his soft but thickening cock. The thing is, he knows Armie would be relaxed with him. He just knows it. Something about the way they already have a friendly rapport, it’s clear. Timmy would give him room to get adjusted to their proximity, to touching one another. Oh god, Timmy laughs at himself. He’s so gone that he’s jerking off over thinking about making Armie  _ comfortable _ , good fucking lord.

But is it just his head making it out like it would be so perfect? Or would it actually be that way? He thinks since they were already honest with each other about what a mess sex usually was with someone new for the first time, that it must just follow that their first try would be a mess as well. But in his daydream, the only way he gets the image to move is with their heads close, their hands wandering, small smiles on their faces. 

And if Timmy comes up his belly when he thinks about Armie pulling him into his lap, that’s between him and his living room on a Monday night. 

  
  
  


On Wednesday, Timmy is flipping through the pages Armie provided of  _ Silence of the Lambs _ at the desk in the corner of the MFA lounge. He’s got one hand pulling at his curls and the other toying with the crusts from a PB&J next to him. Every so often he wipes his hand on his jeans, picks up a pen to underline something or make a note in the margins of the paper. 

The door to the lounge is mostly shut because he’s the only one in there and he jumps a little when there’s a knock on the door. He looks up to see Armie poking his head in, looking around the lounge, like he’s realizing they’re alone. 

“Hey, Tim,” He says opening the door more and stepping into the lounge and sitting down on one arm of the long couch just inside the door.

“Hey.” Timmy plops his pen down on the stack of reading and waves. “How’s your day?”

“Ugh,” Armie brings his hands up to rub at his eyes, “too much grading. I’m taking a break now. Making the rounds to cheer up a bit before I have to get back to it.”

“Grading is such a slog.”

“It really is. What are you working on?”

“Oh, hah,” Timmy runs a hand through his curls and looks down at his papers. “Uh, your homework actually.  _ Silence of the Lambs _ .”

“Oh  _ really? _ ” Armie stretches his legs out and stands, his face twisting into a mischievous smile as he makes his way across the room. 

Timmy feels himself start to blush as Armie approaches, pulls his pen into his hand and flips the top page that he had been reading over onto the stack of pages he was done reading, not for any reason, although he’s sure it looks like he doesn’t want Armie to see his notes. Maybe he doesn’t. He has notes throughout all the readings so far, not that Armie would know that. What did he write anyway?

He sees the shadow of Armie’s head move across the page and can feel him standing behind him. 

“Yeah, um, I read through everything once and now I’m just, uh, going back through thinking more in-depth about the individual scenes.”

“Mmm.” Armie’s noise is non-commital, giving nothing away. He reaches out a finger over Timmy’s shoulder and rests it on a highlighted section where Timmy has written in the margin “use of space?” Timmy feels the weight of his arm across his shoulder as if Armie were touching him even though he isn't. His skin is prickling. 

“Uh, yeah,” Timmy scans the area where Armie’s finger rests and tries to remember why he wrote that. “I was just thinking about the use of space in the room where the characters were at that time. How the scene—” he swallows thickly, “capitalizes on where the people are standing.”

“That’s an interesting way to think about moving the narrative forward, Timmy.”

“Yeah, I… I feel like it’s particularly effective in this moment. Here. The one in the scene.”

Timmy feels his cheeks burn even more as a steady stream of  _ just shut the fuck up shut up shut up _ is flowing through his head.

“Mmm,” Armie hums again and backs away towards the center of the room. “Often, in fact." He pauses and Timmy turns slightly in the chair to look at him. His face is mostly guarded, eyes downcast. "Well, I’m really looking forward to hearing your thoughts in class tomorrow." He looks up and walks back towards the door of the lounge. "I better get back to work.” He knocks his knuckles against the door frame. “See ya.”

As soon as he’s gone, Timmy folds his arms and collapses onto them on top of the desk. What the  _ hell _ was that? He feels like he barely made it out of that without completely revealing his hand. He’s not going to survive a whole class with this man, he’s just not.

The lounge door creaks open again and Timmy sits bolt upright, his cheeks still feeling ruddy, but it’s just Saoirse.

“Heyyy Sersh, what’s up?”

She eyes him shrewdly. “Timmy, are you alright? You look weird.”

“Uhh,” he shakes his hands out and runs them one by one and then the first one again through his curls. “I’m good, I’m good. Just was really focused on this reading.”

She gives him a look like  _ sure _ , but drops her bag on the ground and starts rifling through it. “Well, good, let’s keep focusing then, because I am  _ so behind _ on the reading for Armie’s class tomorrow, and I need to catch up.”

  
  
  


It's 5:45 on Friday night, which makes Timmy and Saoirse a bit early for class. But the classroom door is open, so they go in and take their usual seats. Timmy sets his tea on the table in front of him and takes out his copies of the readings and his pen and his notebook that he’s using this semester for notes and for writing. He doesn’t do most of his fiction writing in it. He writes that on his laptop, but he writes scraps of this and that in his notebook, images, or bits of dialogue that he wants to use, or he’ll sketch out the rough idea of a story before he starts writing the actual story itself. 

The other students start filing in. They all leave the space at the head of the table where Luca usually sits empty.

“Hello, good evening everyone,” Armie projects, announcing his presence. Timmy watches him as he looks around the room, counting how many students are there. Timmy thinks that it must be obvious where he’s supposed to sit, but also realizes there’s an empty seat at the table next to him. He feels his body go hot for a second at the thought that Armie might come and sit next to him, in front of the whole class, he might choose to sit next to him instead of sitting in the obvious seat for someone in charge of the class discussion, the head of the fucking table. 

Armie has a messenger bag over one shoulder and shrugs it off as he moves behind where Timmy is sitting and pulls the chair out next to him. Timmy thinks  _ holy shit _ but also, that he might be overthinking where Armie is choosing to sit. It’s a dumb thing to read too much into. But he also can’t help it. He hears Armie’s messenger bag hit the floor next to him and he knows he needs to look up and acknowledge his presence, but he just can’t yet. Somehow it’s the most intimate thing he’s experienced since he moved out here, Armie choosing to sit next to him.

“What kind of tea is that Timmy? It smells amazing.”

And with that simple question, suddenly Timmy remembers that their easy rapport exists, can touch it again. He snorts, “It’s just Earl Grey, Armie.”

Armie laughs too, “Ah yes! Yes, I knew it smelled familiar. I’m going to have to get some of that. Especially if I’m going to be teaching any night classes ever. This is a brutal time.”

“It really is,” Saoirse interjects from across the table. “Just wait, once it’s after seven you’ll feel it even more.”

The other students file in and Armie jokes with Timmy and Saoirse until the minute class is supposed to start.

“Okay, let’s get started.” Armie’s voice is a few notches louder than it was just moments ago and he sounds more authoritative. “We have a lot we could potentially cover today and I want to hear from you all.” 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Timmy connects some dots during Armie's class.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so there's one more chapter after this and then an epilogue i swear that's the correct number and i won't change it

Armie is beautiful as a teacher: engaging, challenging, patient. He lets the class come around to ideas about the reading through careful prompting, and he encourages them with genuine interest when things take an unexpected turn. 

The whole class Timmy feels the left side of his body too much. He's not sure whether to turn and make eye contact or not, they're too close for that almost. But he's a good student, so he chimes in early and often, asks questions, and when Armie turns to him, eyes bright and says, "Yes, Timmy, great question!" is it so wrong that Timmy gets a little hard?

It's not _that_ bad, but he's thankful for the table anyway. Thankful that when he flips all his pages, there are a million highlighted sections and thoughts already written in the margins, because if his brain needed to work more than just remembering things he'd already thought, he's not sure this would work out at all. All the same, the conversation of the class is interesting. Armie brings them around to ideas about scene construction that Timmy had never considered before. He feels his brain lighting up in different areas, thinking oh yeah, that's a way he could redo that scene, bring the pressure points for the characters closer to the center of the action, bring the awareness of the reader closer to the emotional journey of the protagonist. He scribbles in his notebook (a fresh page, not one with any of the illegible _armie_ s in the margins) and hopes that they’re enough to remind him later what he’s thinking about now.

And if sometimes Timmy loses the thread of the conversation because he's stuck on Armie's hairy knuckles, how it's almost taunting him that he has no ring on any finger on either of his hands, well then that's no one's business really.  
  
  


“And unfortunately, we’ve reached the end of our time together today. Thank you all for a truly thought-provoking conversation tonight.” Armie turns his head and looks right at Timmy as he continues. “I certainly learned something from it.”

Timmy feels like he’s going to levitate right out of his chair. He tries to tuck down the corners of his mouth from where they’re breaking into too much of a grin and feels Saoirse nudging him on the other side. Without looking at either of them, he starts packing away his papers and pens, fussing unnecessarily with his backpack under the table. 

“Whew, I can’t wait to get home,” Saoirse says on a yawn. “Do you want me to give you a ride, Timmy?” 

Timmy stands and pushes his chair in, slightly facing Saoirse and pulling on his backpack. He hears Armie standing up behind him.  
  
“Uh, nah, I’m fine to take the bus. I wanna write a little bit before bed anyway and the bus’ll let me do that. Otherwise I’ll immediately get in bed when I get home.” 

He starts walking with her towards the exit from the class, knows Armie is talking to one of his classmates still in the classroom. It feels weird to move away from him, but also, it would be weirder to just stay there standing next to him while he’s talking to someone. So he follows Saoirse out into the hallway.  
  
“Was it just me or was that kind of… intense?” Saorise whispers to him.

“I’m so fucking glad that you think so, oh my god.”

“I think… he might be kind of into you,” Saoirse says, keeping her voice low.

But Timmy freaks out anyway, “you literally can’t fucking say that. I—” He does a full 180, his boots squeaking on the floor, and sees Armie exiting the classroom. He sees Timmy and nods at him, and Timmy turns back to Saoirse, quick, “Oh my god, he’s right there and also coming towards us, so please just—”

Saoirse turns as Armie and his long strides catch up with them. “Timmy and I were just saying how much we both enjoyed your class.”

“Aw shucks, you two. It was fun to chat with you all. Masters students are always great to teach. I forget what it’s like since I mostly teach undergrads here.”

"Did you teach Masters students during your PhD?"

“No, but when I first came here I taught some of the MA classes. I still do if there’s enrollment for them, but there hasn’t been the interest for the past few years, so they’ve been cancelled.”

“Well, this is me,” Saoirse says, gesturing towards the doors that lead out to the parking garage.

“Me too,” Armie says.

“I’m catching the bus so…” Timmy trails off, stopped in the hallway at the juncture where it seems they’ll all split up.

“Oh, I’ll wait with you,” Armie offers quickly.

Saoirse’s eyebrows hit her hairline, but she schools her face quickly. “Okay then! Goodnight. See you all tomorrow probably.” And then she practically runs away from the two of them.

Timmy nods his head towards the hallway that leads to the exit closest to the bus stop. “Well, come on then.”

And Armie does.

Outside in the chilly February night air, Timmy pulls his hood up and gets his gloves on. “I’m excited to get working on a scene that your class sparked for me.”

Armie’s rubbing his hands together in front of his mouth and blowing on them. “Oh yeah? What is the central idea?”

“Well, when we were talking about the emotional clarity for the protagonist, I was thinking about this failed story I have about watching a band in a bar and I realized that the reason it’s all fucked up is because the reader has no idea the stakes in the story. I didn’t try to make them clear at all.”

Timmy’s leaning back against the wall of the building, scuffing one boot against the concrete underneath of him while he talks. When he looks up, he finds Armie’s eyes. The winter air is a bit hazy with their close breath under the bright lights from the side of the building. There’s no bus in sight.

“And what are the stakes of the story supposed to be?”

“It’s supposed to be about whether or not the main character belongs with the girl he’s with or not. And he has this experience of, like... attraction I guess to this guy singing for a band in a shithole bar.”

“Mmm,” Armie vocalizes. Encourages, but doesn’t interrupt.

“And he knows he’s probably just drunk, but he can’t shake the feeling. And he thinks that’s an awfully stupid reason to leave his girlfriend. But…”

“Is it?” Armie finishes for him. 

The bus turns the corner and they both hear it. They turn to look at it together. 

“Well, I can’t wait to read it, Timmy.”

“Thanks.” He turns his back towards the approaching bus, shoves his hands in his pockets. “Thanks for class too. Good night, Armie.”

Armie waves as Timmy gets on the bus. The doors shut and Timmy finds a seat.

  
  


Timmy’s feeling the most energized he’s ever felt after his night class. On the bus, he pulls out his notebook and turns the page to a fresh one and he starts writing from that seed of a scene that he saw so clearly like a light coming on in a dark room. 

He’s not ready when the bus stops at his stop. He fumbles his pen into the notebook and zips his backpack without putting it inside, just needing to get standing so the bus doesn’t start moving again.   
  


At home, he sits at his desk in his bedroom, the small lamp on in the darkness while the words flow out of him. At a certain point, he picks up his laptop instead, starts transcribing what he’d written on the bus, and the whole story unfolds before him.  
  
  
  


The next week, Timmy’s just finished making his tea and his eyes are heavy while he’s skimming his reading for Luca’s class. The light is low in the lounge and Saoirse’s out getting dinner.

Timmy turns when he hears the door creak open and sees Armie poke the top of his head through the door. 

“Hey.”

“Hey, Armie. How’s it going?”

“You look like you’re about to fall asleep in your book.”

Timmy gestures to the tea. “Countin’ on this guy to pull me through.”

“Ah.”

Timmy plops his pen down in the middle of his book and shuts it on the desk. Pulls his feet up and onto the chair and rests his cheek on his knees as he looks at Armie. “I wrote that story I mentioned last week after you guest taught our class.”

Armie crosses the room slowly, and stops when he reaches the end of the desk Timmy’s sitting at. “Oh?” He says. He sits on the corner of the desk so that Timmy has to pick his head back up off his knees in order to not strain his neck to look up at him. 

“Yeah, can I like… send it to you or something? I’d love to hear your thoughts on it.”

“I mean, how long is it?”

“Three pages single spaced.”

“You could just read it to me.”

Timmy’s thinks _holy_ _shit_ , but says “You’re not doing anything?”

“Nah, I’m done for the day.”

“Oh.”

“And I want to hear you read it.”

Timmy looks down again. “Well, okay.” He’s smiling and he can’t really stop. He touches the track pad of his laptop to wake it up. Armie stays sitting on the edge of the desk, crosses his arms across his chest and leans back. Timmy sips his tea, clears his throat and says, “This is a first draft, keep in mind, okay?”

“Okay, I promise.”

And then he reads.

Armie watches him as he reads. Timmy feels the energy and the clarity of the scene that hadn’t been there before. The focus on the tension between the narrator’s situation and what the audience is supposed to want for him. He feels it on the surface this time, instead of buried as it was before. His reticence to express that vividness of desire for a stranger that he’d felt in the first draft has gone elsewhere. Instead, now he feels able to be honest about it. How it wasn’t perfect, how this guy wasn’t at all his type, but something about the way he moved his body, something about his voice when he sang, had that element of magic that Timmy had never ever felt with his girlfriend. His confusion about what that meant is present as he reads about how his girlfriend stood next to him while the band played their whole set.

There’s no startling resolution. The story ends with the narrator drinking and walking home holding hands with his girlfriend.

He looks up at Armie when he finishes, and finds a strange look of awe on his face.

“Timmy, I—I’m so happy that that is what you got out of our class. It’s a powerful story.” 

“You think so?”

“Yeah, it’s funny and self-effacing, but also devastating because you know that the narrator is going to walk away from something that probably wouldn’t work out, but would at least give him a glimpse of something actually real, when it seems like he’s never had it.”

Timmy looks down. “Uh, yeah. That’s… that’s exactly what I wanted to come across.”

“It does.”

Timmy feels the strangest energy in his body as he stands up from the desk and moves just barely to his right, to stand right in front of Armie’s knees. He doesn’t breathe, he doesn’t move his hands, he feels like he’s floating as his feet still and he looks up to Armie’s eyes.

Armie’s voice is the quietest Timmy’s ever heard it when he asks, “Can I kiss you?”

“Yes please.” 

At Timmy’s words, Armie’s arms uncross and both of his hands reach out for Timmy’s face. 

Timmy slowly, so slowly picks up his right foot and puts it directly in between Armie’s and shifts his weight towards him at the same time that Armie leans into him and their faces are so close. When Timmy’s eyes come up he can see Armie’s mouth, his stubble and then he shuts his eyes and feels his lips as they steadily press against his own. His brain is taken over by a quiet hum and he thinks nothing as his whole existence feels centered in the warm press of Armie’s lips. Timmy wants to let his body go and sink into Armie’s chest, but he doesn’t. He holds body upright, brings his hands instead to Armie’s sides, while Armie moves his lips in a gentle kiss. 

And then Timmy’s brain seems to come back online all at once, and he realizes a few things 1) holy fuck they’re kissing in the MFA lounge and 2) it’s hot as fuck but also 3) what the fuck this would be so bad if anyone walked in.

“Uh, should we be doing this here?”

Armie smirks. “Probably not.” And he looks towards the door which is still mostly shut and then leans in and presses his lips softly to Timmy’s again. “Last one. For now. Get a drink with me tomorrow?”

Timmy feels a small smile pulling at his lips. “Okay. Where?”

“The High Horse on Cleveland? At eight?”

“Okay, I’d like that.”

“Good.” Armie’s mouth is still close and his eyes are dancing. “I meant it, what I said about that piece. You should submit it to Unsung. My friend reads for them and he’d love it.” 

“Okay,” Timmy laughs. “I will but just because you told me to.”

Armie smiles.


End file.
